


a cotton candy taste that suits the lavender of your voice

by feralphoenix



Series: the away game [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anxiety, DFAB Chara, Disabled Character, Disordered Eating, Explicit Sexual Content, Intersex Frisk, Nonverbal Frisk, Other, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Spoilers - Undertale Pacifist Route, Threesome - M/Other/Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 16:17:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6712207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chara does not deal well with being left home alone for an entire month while Frisk and Asriel are away on ambassador business; thankfully, when their partners get home, they're more than happy to make it up to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a cotton candy taste that suits the lavender of your voice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inverts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inverts/gifts).



> _(to hell with human beings_ \- want to follow those collarbones with my lips and hold her hand while she knits and lick the [moon](http://marchenwings.tumblr.com/post/140482956944/) out of her.)
> 
> warnings for chara's unfortunete brain weather cocktail and for their codependent tendencies.

It’s the cheerful sound of your ringtone, gaining in volume as your phone buzzes in your hand, that finally wakes you.

You’ve rolled over and pulled the blankets back around you more times than you can really remember this morning, but phone calls mean that someone on the other end wants to talk to you, and you’re careful enough with your number that it’s nearly always someone worth speaking to. So you rub the grit from your eyes with one hand as you bring your phone’s screen closer to your face with the other. You squint at the number on your screen, and your heart turns over. You fumble to thumb the accept call button.

“’Lo?” you manage to get out, voice creaky still with sleep. The phone is too cold against your ear, too hard and too smooth, even though you’ve held on to it all night.

“Hey,” Asriel says from the other end. You exhale and your whole body relaxes. It’s pathetic—you were on the phone with him last only last week, you were up texting him until _midnight,_ but not being able to hear his voice ties knots in you that you only notice when they come undone. “Chara, are you all right? You sound a little hoarse.”

“’M fine,” you say, pushing yourself up on automatic. All the pressure of the heavy blankets drops away, and you scoot back to lean into the armrest. “Just got up, is all.”

“Oh,” he says. His voice is tinged with concern for some reason, and you frown. “I’m sorry if we woke you.”

“It’s fine,” you assure him. “We—Frisk is there too? What is it?” Your feet and stomach feel cold, suddenly, despite being underneath the blankets still. “They’ve extended the meetings.”

“Oh! No, it’s not that at all,” Asriel says. “It’s the other way around, actually. The conferences ended early, and Frisk’s next appointments all got canceled because—” He trails off here. “Well, I guess I can let Frisk explain all the politics later, they know better than me. They’re kinda signing too fast for me to keep up.”

“Then…” you prompt.

“They switched out our plane tickets,” he says, at last. “We’re coming home early. We ought to be back by tonight.”

You pinch yourself, hard. It hurts.

“We’re at the airport right now,” Asriel goes on. “I can’t wait to see you.”

Breathe in slowly, fight the lightheadedness. “Yeah. I—I want to see you guys too.”

“I’m so sorry it’s taken so long,” he tells you. His voice is velvety. A murmur. Not quite what you’d term a bedroom voice, but inordinately gentle nonetheless. “We really missed you, Chara.”

You smile and lean into the phone, uncomfortable hardness and coldness be damned. “I missed you both too. Stay safe. I’ll get things presentable for you.”

He laughs at this, and if you strain your ears you think you can hear Frisk’s soft giggle too. “You’ve been doing all the housework by yourself for almost a month, Chara. And the two of us’ve just been holed up in hotels doing political stuff. We’re both happy to have the chance to do some real chores for a change.”

“Liar,” you scold gently, and stretch. Slowly, you turn so that you can set your feet on the floor in preparation to stand.

“Well, gosh,” Asriel says, fake-wounded. “I’m only overexaggerating. I’ll be happy to do chores until I remember why I hate the ones I hate. Is that better?”

“I’m not sure about better, but I appreciate the honesty,” you tell him.

He sighs. “Frisk says they love you,” he says. “I love you too. We’ve got to go, it’s time to head to our gate.”

“All right,” you say. It’s not—there’s a part of you that’s already hunting for topics of conversation—but you only have a few more hours without them to bear. You can make it a little longer. “I love you both.”

“See you soon,” Asriel says, and your phone plays its call-ended jingle in your ear.

You let it fall to your lap. Already you’re tempted to crawl back under the blankets and sleep those last hours away, but: Asriel’s voice has given you more energy than you’ve had in a good few days. You should capitalize on that while you can.

Tonight. They could be back as early as tonight. You breathe in, let the thought fill you with strength. Breathe out. Drop the phone on the coffee table and get to your feet. There’s work to be done.

 

 

It’s a quarter to one by the time you’ve made breakfast and rinsed the dishes to put them in the washer. It’s not quite full, and you still don’t trust yourself with all the unfamiliar buttons even now, years after settling into the 2100s; you’ll get one of the others to run the thing later.

Your phone beeps at you while you’re brushing your teeth, and you fumble for it with your unoccupied right hand, but—of course it isn’t Asriel or Frisk, they’ll still be on their plane.

It’s Toriel texting you, and you smile and grip the stem of the toothbrush between your teeth so that you’ll have both hands free to answer.

_I am going out to pick up groceries, my child. Is there anything that you would like? ]:)_

There’s… enough in the pantry and the fridge to tide you over until tonight, at least, but you think it over anyway. Will Asriel and Frisk expect you to have things stocked up for them? Will they not want to shop until they’ve had enough time to recover from their trip? You make a face.

 _Sure,_ you text back. _If you wouldn’t mind picking up some meat and vegetables or something, anything is fine. Sorry._

 _You need not apologize, Chara,_ Toriel replies after a moment. _I know that you are doing your best. Do you have any preferences in what I pick up?_

Your stomach makes unhappy noises at you, reminding you that a bowl of cereal is not enough to make up for the scattered meals you’ve managed over the past week.

_Baby carrots or apples or something? Things that are easy to just wash and eat_

Another pause. You remind yourself that Toriel isn’t judging you, she just takes a while to type with her big fingers because she doesn’t like to send spelling errors or incorrect punctuation.

_Of course! ]:) What would you like for meat, my dear?_

You make another face. _Ground beef? Maybe stew meat if it’s on sale, Frisk and Ree are coming back tonight and they might want to make something w/it_

_Ah, that is excellent! I will let you know when I am about to come by. I can send Sans if you would rather._

You tuck your hair behind your ears and smile. _Whichever works better for you,_ you type. _I’m already making you go out of your way & all_

 _You are doing nothing of the sort,_ Toriel replies. _I am proud of you for allowing me to help you. I love you very much._

The screen blurs for a moment. You set the phone down, take your toothbrush out of your mouth, and wipe your face.

 _I love you too,_ you text back. _Thank you._

Toriel sends you a smiley face, and you go back to brushing.

 

 

There isn’t much necessary cleanup to do around the house, you decide; you vacuumed and dusted the first two weekends, and in the middle of last week Papyrus came over and announced apropos of nothing that it was time to organize. The only rooms that have any mess are the ones that you’ve been using—so, the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom. You’ve put the dishes away. The blankets can go off the couch cushions and be folded over the back; the comforter goes in the hamper. There’s not really any laundry to do, just a few outfits you’ve worn when you had company.

So all you really have to do to make things presentable again is wash the sink and get all the bottles back in place along the vanity. It takes only about twenty minutes’ worth of scrubbing, and you’re done.

You put your hands on your hips and survey your handiwork, pleased with yourself. All these little tasks are _easy_ when you actually have the energy to deal with them.

This does leave you with little to do for the rest of the afternoon, though. You finished up all your orders for this month on the first week, already well aware that you wouldn’t have the mental stamina even for knitting later on and that it would be best to get things over with before you had to budget.

There’s next month’s to get started on, you suppose. You can’t shoot the video for your patreon backers yet because they’d requested that you demonstrate intermediate technique variations for monsters with bigger hands, and you’ll need Asriel for that.

And there’s the box still sitting in the corner, but… well. You make a face and get out your needles and yarn to work on scarves instead.

You’ve only knitted a few rows before your phone pings. It’s a text from Toriel saying that Sans is on his way. Naturally, you’ve barely set it back on the couch next to you before there’s a knock at the door. You set your things down with a sigh and get up to answer it.

“Delivery service,” Sans announces from your front stoop the moment you crack the front door open. He’s got an armful of plastic bags.

“Nice,” you say, stepping back to let him in. “New part time job?”

“Nah,” he replies, grin enormous (when is it ever not?) as he follows you inside and hip-checks the door shut. “Special for you, at the bequest of the old lady. I’ll even help you get everything put away.”

“Give me some of those,” you tell him, and lift two bags out of his grip. “I can at least manage a little of this by myself.”

“Eh,” says Sans, “it’s less work for me, so you won’t hear me complaining.”

There are carrots, peppers, potatoes, apples, and pears; you leave the fruit on the counter, put the potatoes at the bottom of the pantry, and direct Sans to stow the vegetables and meat in the refrigerator and freezer respectively.

“Kinda empty in here,” Sans observes. You shrug. He closes the door.

It’s quiet, relatively, while you put the empty bags away.

“Kid,” he says.

You turn over your shoulder and look down at him. Pointedly, to emphasize that you’re a head taller than he is now. Sans ignores your posturing; he’s as good at that as he’s ever been.

“You’re lookin’ kinda wan,” he goes on.

“I’ll be fine,” you head him off. “Things don’t usually pile up like this, is all—not for this long, anyway. They’ll be back soon and that’s what matters.”

Sans shrugs, apparently not willing to press the issue. Contrarian that you are, this nettles you.

“I _know_ it’s not really—perfect or, or ideal. But I’m getting by well enough. Even if I keep needing you all to help. I’m—I’m trying, all right?”

“We know,” he says, and pats your upper arm with a bony hand. “You’re doing your best. We’re proud of you, kiddo.” The hand lingers on your sleeve. “Want company? You know what a lazybones I am, I’d be happy to hang if you’ll _spare_ me the effort of heading back to Tori’s.”

You make a face. “You know I’m not as merciful as Frisk. If you already have plans to spend time with Toriel, you shouldn’t stand her up to look after me. She’s your best friend—and she appreciates all your low-hanging fruit a lot more than I do.”

Sans shrugs and sticks his hands back in his pockets. “You know the good thing about low-hanging fruit is, you can just reach up and pick it without expending any effort.”

“Thanks for the demonstration,” you say.

He shrugs. “You’re smiling.”

“My face is just like this,” you inform him. “Anyway. I still have some errands to take care of before Frisk and Asriel get home, so I need to get dressed for them anyway.”

“You _are_ doing your best,” Sans observes. He sounds satisfied. “I can stick around and see you off if you want, buddo.”

“I regret to inform you that ‘foster mother’s best friend’ is not actually a close enough relationship for me to want you around while I’m changing clothes,” you say—still smiling despite yourself. “If you want to make sure that I’m not just trying to get rid of you, I can text you when I leave. Or you can text me if it’s been half an hour and you haven’t heard from me yet, to remind me to go.”

“’F you think you need me to,” Sans says.

You sigh. Better to have the insurance. “Just in case.”

“All right then,” he says. “I’ll drop you a line when the time comes.”

And he saunters right off. He doesn’t even have the common courtesy to wait until he gets to the front door—he just takes a shortcut as soon as he passes through the hallway.

It’s Sans, though. You’ve come to expect that of him.

 

 

You pick jeans and a shirt out as quickly as you can. There’s one thing that can be said for living in your pajamas most of the time—you don’t have to go in the bedroom to get to the closet.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the bed weren’t so _big._ Far too big for just you to sleep in on your own. You wouldn’t be able to share it with Frisk and Asriel if it weren’t this size, but—it’s bad enough when only one of them has to be away at work. When it’s both of them… especially for this long… it’s just too much.

So you avoid looking at it as you take your pajama shirt off and wriggle into your binder. It’s been a while since you’ve had one on, and you roll your shoulders to readjust to the pressure on your ribs. You feel even more alert and energized with your chest flattened—it doesn’t matter so much if it’s just your family and friends, but you hate to go outside without this. It’s hard enough being around humans without the risk of someone misgendering you because of your looks.

You pull your shirt on and change into your jeans, and tug your locket out from between your binder and shirt. Take a deep breath. Leave the room quickly. Tell yourself that you’re not really running away.

Asriel and Frisk will be back soon. That’s what’s important. It will all be better soon. Until then, you just have to take care of this one last thing.

You check your appearance in the downstairs bathroom mirror. Hair’s a bit messy, but that doesn’t really matter. You still somehow have bags under your eyes despite that you’ve been sleeping most of the time—the dark circles are probably just more or less permanent. Makeup is more Asriel and Frisk’s thing than yours; even if you wanted to cover it up, you wouldn’t know where to start. It’s fine. Your jeans look okay and your red Homestuck shirt hugs your flat front in a way that makes you feel warm and fuzzy and more confident than usual.

“It’s me,” you inform your reflection, and smile at yourself. The expression hardly feels stiff at all—good.

Your phone’s buzzing on the table when you emerge—all new messages.

One’s from Frisk— _we’re getting on the second plane now!!_ —to which you reply _Stay safe! I love you_ and nothing else.

Another is from Sans, asking if you’re doing okay with the errand. You text him back that you’ve got clothes on and are just waiting for your escort.

And the last is from Alphys—she and Undyne are almost at your house, she says. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, get the big box of individual packages, and carry it to the foyer, where you lean on the wall next to it and wait, running through your breathing exercises as a preventative measure.

About a minute later, the doorbell rings, sending your heart pattering against your ribs. You straighten up and only trip on the rug a little on your way to get the door open.

“Hey!” Undyne crows, holding her arms out jubilantly, waiting for your move. You fall into them, wrapping your own arms around her tough bony middle as she hugs you back and lifts you up onto your tiptoes. “Good to see you, kid!”

“Yeah,” you mumble into her front. She squeezes you one last time and sets you down, leaving you free to hug Alphys instead. She’s shorter and softer and her head’s just the right height for you to rest your chin on her scaly forehead, and her hugs are cool and firm.

“We got just the one load today?” Undyne asks, indicating the box.

“Yeah,” you say again. You might be shaking a little. If Alphys notices, she doesn’t comment—and you’re pretty sure she notices, because she’s petting your spine. It’s soothing and a little ticklish, to have her smooth blunt claws run over and over your back.

“If you’re r-ready, Chara,” she says from somewhere around your chest, “shall we g-go?”

Deep breath. They’re both here. Alphys understands how bad you have it outside better than anyone but Frisk and Asriel, and Undyne is here to protect you just in case. You’ll be just fine.

“Okay,” you tell them. “I’m ready.”

Undyne hoists the box with one arm and holds your hand with the other. You close the door behind you, lock it, stuff the key in your pocket, and grab Alphys’ hand with your free one.

You love having your etsy because it means you have something to _do_ with all the shit you make when you’re stress knitting, and it means you’re earning at least a little money so that you can contribute to the house finances. (Your partners pull in plenty of money, and you’ve also got all the gold that Toriel and Asgore have set aside for you as a safety cushion just in case, but it’s the principle of the thing.)

But selling physical goods over the internet means having to _ship_ them to your buyers, which means having to take them to the post office to send because a) you can’t have shipping people just come to your door and take the packages for you (what kind of future is this, honestly?) and b) even if you could, you’d be too goddamn terrified to answer the door for them because you cannot, _cannot_ handle interacting with humans in any manner, especially by yourself.

 Going outside alone is _death,_ you can barely make it to the end of the driveway without hyperventilating and developing nausea and chills, but if you’ve got someone with you it’s just this side of bearable.

Frisk and Asriel are both ideal when you need an escort. Toriel and Asgore are both great, too, when their jobs don’t keep them too busy—Toriel usually has homework to grade and when Asgore isn’t gardening he has political work to take care of. Papyrus and Sans are both okay, because even though Papyrus loves to chat up absolutely everyone, that means that _you_ don’t have to do any talking, and Sans makes a lot of really bad jokes about Everything but he can talk you down from anxiety attacks and is able to shortcut you out of bad situations as soon as he can find a door.

But with all that said, Alphys and Undyne are your usual go-to whenever your partners can’t be here to help. You feel—if not safe, then not shaky as a leaf with them bracketing you.

Undyne isn’t allowed to drive for obvious reasons and both you and Alphys are dead terrified of driving cars, so that means you’ve either got to hoof it across town to get to the post office or take public transportation. The risk of running into humans is about equal either way, but the bus is faster, so you take that.

Sitting at the stop, Alphys starts talking to you about some of the anime that are airing this season—you’ve been missing the recent episodes, and you bring it up because there actually _are_ a couple things you don’t want spoilers on and sometimes Alphys has trouble controlling her enthusiasm about this stuff. She squawks, pulls out her phone, and threatens to play them for you _right now_ —you have to remind her, with Undyne cackling alongside you, that this is a _fifteen-minute bus ride_ and these are _half-hour episodes of anime._ Plus you might have the other people on the bus yell at you for being loud.

This conversation lasts you until the bus actually comes, and Alphys keeps you so busy talking to her that you’re in your seats before you know it—Alphys sitting sideways and taking up two because of her tail, and Undyne resting the box half on her lap and half on yours so that you’ve got it to hide behind just in case. She puts her arm around your shoulders so that you can lean against her, and Alphys keeps her phone out to show you anime things. It occurs to you that you haven’t even had a chance to check whether this bus’s driver is human or not. They’re good at herding you.

But being a bus, this means the ride has to make stops to pick up passengers and drop them off. Your side of the neighborhood mostly has monsters, but—well, there are humans too, and none of them actually come _sit_ by you but you’re shaking and your heartbeat’s roaring in your ears and you just want to close your eyes and make yourself small. You _wish_ you had a knife, you’d feel safer with a weapon, but you’re not allowed to carry one because everybody knows that you’re liable to lose your head and do a violence without Frisk or Asriel around to calm you down.

Also you’re pretty sure nobody’s allowed to carry weapons on buses or into the post office. Whatever.

Undyne’s arm is strong around your shoulders and Alphys lowers her phone a little to give you an excuse to duck behind the big cardboard box to look at it, and you sort of kind of maybe cower just a bit but they’re here and as long as you concentrate on that you think you can probably survive.

“This one’s our stop, kiddo,” Undyne says, low—or, well, as low as she ever gets. You take a big shaky breath and cling to Alphys because Undyne’s busy with the box, and you watch Undyne’s red ponytail and only the ponytail as you follow her down the aisle and off the bus to the sidewalk outside.

It’s the middle of the day on a Tuesday, thankfully, so the post office is mostly empty. Even better, one of the workers here is a monster, and one you sort of know—you always make a beeline for them when they’re available, because this way you can _actually talk to them_ instead of having to whisper or sign or text to whoever’s with you in order to communicate.

“Hey,” they say, waving to you from across the counter. “Etsy shipments again?”

“Yes,” you tell them. “I’ve been getting people asking me to ship them on an order basis instead of in batches again. It is the _worst._ I have a hard time staying patient enough to keep explaining that this way’s more convenient, because I’m not just going to be like _I’m an agoraphobe literally fuck you_ to some randos on the internet. I just let my partners write the replies for me.”

“On the one hand, at least your customers are excited to get their orders,” says the mail monster. “But yeah, that is a little rude. I’ve looked up your site, I know your shipping schedule is written _right there.”_

You unload packages with Undyne and Alphys’ help, and the mail monster stamps them with labels and puts them on the conveyer belt behind them to be taken off to shipping. The monster’s been here for a while, and they chat smoothly while you all work. You guess it helps to have four arms to lift and carry and stamp with.

“See you again next month, Mx Dreemurr,” the mail monster says with a smile and a wave. You smile and nod your head at them, taking Undyne and Alphys’ hands again as you leave.

“You’re doing good,” Undyne tells you as you follow her lead to the bus stop, head down so that you only have to look at your shoes and hers and Alphys’ claws on the sidewalk instead of looking at the humans you know live and work around here. “You’re really doing a good job, Chara.”

By some stroke of luck, the next bus driver is a monster too, and you would be relaxing in your seat and maybe actually taking Alphys up on her offers of anime except that _there are a bunch of noisy human teenagers sitting in the back_ and you kind of want to stop existing _right now_ or at least hide under your cardboard box and not come out _ever._

You compromise by halfway climbing into Undyne’s lap and letting her and Alphys both hug you, taking vague comfort in the scathing glare Undyne’s got to be shooting over your head to the humans.

The noise goes on. And on, and on, and _on._ Don’t these awful things have a stop to get off at, are they just doing this to antagonize you, because if they are it is definitely working.

“D-don’t actually go do anything,” Alphys says in an undertone. “We c-can’t start trouble, and we can’t leave Chara.”

“I _know_ that,” Undyne growls. “But still. They could at least stand to simmer the fuck down.”

You grip her shirt tighter.

By the time you’re able to get off the bus, you’re a wobbly shaky wreck—Alphys has to half carry you to the door, and you drop the keys twice trying to open it and have to give up and let Undyne unlock it instead. You stagger in, slump down against the wall, and listen to her lock it behind you.

“I’ll do their breathing shit,” Undyne says to Alphys. “You go find them some chocolate or something?”

“R-right,” Alphys squeaks, and she clatters off. Undyne squats down on the floor next to you and holds your hands.

“I’m gonna count,” she announces. “You follow along with me.”

Words are for people whose lungs aren’t trying to implode, so you just nod at her.

“And on second thought,” she adds, “I’m gonna get you over to the couch or a chair or something. Can’t be good for your back to just lay on the floor like this.”

You nod again, dizzy.

She gets you settled in, wrapped up in blankets; your hyperventilation has sort of stabilized by the time that Alphys returns.

“O-okay, so,” she says, “there wasn’t any _chocolate-_ chocolate that I c-could find b-because I know you must have stashes _somewhere_ and I just d-don’t know where they are, but there _was_ chocolate nice cream in the refrigerator and I _do_ have the past three episodes of Magic Armored Soldier Asterion all queued up if you maybe want to watch them after all.”

“Sure,” you say. “I could use some explosions and silly mecha battles to take my mind off things.”

You’ve spent better afternoons than this, sandwiched between your friends and medicating your anxiety attack with ice cream while you watch anime on a tiny smartphone screen—but you’ve had much worse ones than this, so. You’ll deal with it, you suppose.

All your responsibilities actually _are_ taken care of now, after all.

 

 

Alphys and Undyne go home after you’ve run out of anime to watch together and you’re feeling a little less rattled. You text Sans to tell him that things got taken care of, text Toriel to let her know you’re okay and this month’s etsy things have been shipped, text Papyrus to thank him for cleaning things up last week and so saving you from having to rush around doing even more chores, and text Asgore because he’s been away on politics stuff too and you miss him.

Sans and Toriel only exchange a few replies, but Papyrus stays on with you while you knit, and every few rows you pick up your phone and read his messages. You don’t have that much to contribute aside from responses, but that’s fine, because Papyrus has always got stories to tell and is generally bursting to tell them to anyone who’s interested. And they _do_ tend to be entertaining stories, so you like to listen.

Asgore starts replying too, after a while— _My child, I would love to take you to see the local gardens before they are open to the general public, if you are feeling up to it_ —and you answer him too ( _I would like that a lot but would it be too much trouble to get in??_ ). You wind up making some plans for next month in between knitting and following along with Papyrus’ latest tale.

The last you heard from either Asriel or Frisk was about two hours ago—they both sent quick messages that they’d arrived at your local airport safely, and should be back home in a few hours, after they claim their baggage and make the drive. They should be here in another hour at the absolute latest.

Unless something has happened on the way back. Unless they’ve gotten hurt or waylaid or distracted or, or, or.

You’re trying not to think about it. It’s only sort of working.

Really you ought to be making yourself dinner—it’s getting to be about that time of night—but when you left the sofa to venture into the kitchen and actually stared at the groceries that Toriel and Sans were kind enough to bring you, you just sort of wound up staring at them helplessly for several minutes on end, unsure what to do with your hands. In the end you just gave up. You had breakfast earlier, so the nice cream should be enough to tide you over.

You’ve gotten through a scarf, a couple of potholders, and the beginnings of a sweater in your own size when you hear the front door open.

You leap up so fast it dizzies you—so fast your knitting spills onto the floor, unraveling at least one row—so fast you nearly knock your teacup over and spill its contents across the coffee table. And you don’t _care._ You stumble and nearly fall on your face when your foot catches on the edge of the rug but you keep moving and fly with your soul feeling as though it’s about to erupt from your chest, fly towards the front door—

Asriel is closing the door behind him. Frisk is pulling their suitcase to stand next to his in the hallway. Both are still in their jackets—in their formal businesswear. Frisk takes their glasses off and shakes them. Asriel shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on one of the hooks on the wall.

They turn and see you at the same time, faces lighting up at exactly the same moment. Frisk slides their glasses back onto their face.

You slam into Asriel with enough strength to push him back up against the door, and he lifts you up in his big strong arms, gentle and laughing. Frisk’s arms find you, too, when Asriel lets your feet rest on the floor once again. You hold on to them both, eyes shut tight against tears. They’re warm. They’re solid. They smell like—well, airport, unfamiliar and putting your hackles up a little, but underneath the airplane smell there’s Frisk’s favorite shampoo, and the sweet scent of Asriel’s fur. Asriel nuzzles your temple, and something in your chest uncoils at the softness of his nose; Frisk kisses your cheek.

“We’re home,” Asriel announces completely unnecessarily. You’re not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“God, I missed you,” you say, voice muffled in his chest and Frisk’s shoulder.

“We missed you too,” he replies, and he kisses your ear. Maybe it’s just because of how long it’s been, but the warmth and the soft tickling sensation make your face flame.

Frisk taps your shoulder a little—you ease back and away reluctantly and look at them, giving them the space they need to use their hands.

 _We need to unpack,_ they say. _And I need a shower. Have you eaten anything today?_

“Breakfast,” you say. “And when Undyne and Alphys were over they had me eat ice cream. Uh—Toriel and Sans got us groceries, so if somebody wants to use the kitchen there should be something.”

Frisk claps. _I want to cook!!_ they sign, hands quick and excited. _But I need a shower first, so…_

“I guess I’ll unpack,” Asriel says.

You look from one to the other. Swallow. “Should I—help?”

“No, you don’t have to,” Asriel says, reaching out to stroke your shoulder. “You’ve been running around doing chores all day. We’ve just been sitting in cars and airplanes. Let us spoil you for a while, we haven’t gotten to in so long.”

You shiver a little at his words, even though you know he probably doesn’t mean it quite like that. You feel—on fire, alive, in a way you haven’t in a long time, frenetic energy filling every filament of your body. You feel like a raw nerve, but without the pain.

Frisk reaches out and touches your cheek—just a little brush of their thumb over your cheekbone, but you shiver again. Their soft mouth is a gentle curve; they’ve got stray strands of hair out of place, and their glasses are crooked. It’s the pale pale color of their hooded eyes that arrests you, though. Their pupils are wide, and their irises are a thin sky-colored ring around them.

 _You can come with me,_ they tell you. _Keep me company for a while._

“We’ve just walked in the door and _already_ you’re monopolizing them?” Asriel complains. “Not fair, Frisk.”

They giggle, soft and breathy. _You’ll get your turn too, just be patient._

Your whole face is probably about the same color as the apples Toriel had Sans bring you. Mercifully, neither one of them comments on it.

Frisk takes off their jacket in graceful movements and hangs it up next to Asriel’s. They take your hand in their gentle one and lead you away, towards the staircase. You follow: It’s as though your feet hardly even touch the ground, your body feels so light.

They head straight into the bedroom and shut the door behind you, pulling their sweater over their head and depositing it on the end of the bed. The gesture is perfectly casual, but you catch your breath at the sight of their creamy olive skin.

“Was, um,” you begin, mouth dry. “Was the… did the meeting go alright?”

They turn to face you, cock their head to one side, and shrug. _It went okay,_ they say. The lamps are turned low—Asriel insisted on dimmer switches in every room, thinking of Frisk’s eyes—and their pale palms are hypnotic. They take a moment to shuck off their slacks, stepping out of the pant legs and leaving them on the floor, peeling their socks off one after the other. You can’t keep your eyes off of them—their soft thighs and softer stomach, the gentle curve of their breasts, their lacy underwear with the fancy flowers-and-pinstripes print that looks like old wallpaper. _But let’s talk about work later, okay? I think it’s better if we all get a chance to unwind first._

“Right,” you say awkwardly. Your stare must be so obvious, but Frisk is just smiling at you mischievously like they don’t care at all.

 _For now I want to get rid of all this airport smell,_ they go on, wrinkling their nose a little. _And I want to wash my hair._ A pause. _You can come in with me if you want._

“I,” you squeak, “is—is that okay?”

Frisk giggles and skips over their discarded clothes to wrap you up in their arms—soft and smooth and warm enough to make the blood pound in your palms, your mouth, between your legs.

“Of course it is,” they say out loud, and your heart turns over as they kiss you.

They taste like mint gum—they must have been chewing it to help deal with the air pressure changes—and they’re playful and bold as ever, teasing your tongue with theirs, sucking on your lower lip until you whine. They run their hands up your sides—slow, warm, torturous—and under your shirt, breaking the kiss for a moment to pull it over your head. You let your hands fall to their bra hooks and then hesitate, but they nod and you shiver and undo them one by one.

Frisk shrugs out of the bra and immediately goes to fumbling with your jeans, shivering a little when you bring your hands back around to cup their breasts. You want to kiss every stretch mark and trace circles around their dark nipples forever, but they get your fly undone after only a few seconds, and you have to dance in place to keep from tangling your legs in your pants and underwear as Frisk tugs both down off your hips.

You stand there shivering and panting, dizzied and happy, you in your binder and Frisk in their panties and not a stitch more. They step backwards, pull their underwear off deliberately, and you—you want to grab them, push them down on the mattress, let them push _you_ down instead, you don’t know—but they keep smiling at you and retreat towards the bathroom door. You’re left staring in blank confusion until you hear water running and remember what you’re actually supposed to be doing here, and then Frisk pops back around the doorframe and beckons you with one curled finger that judging by their wide smile is meant to be Exactly as suggestive as it looks.

They duck back around the corner. You wrestle your binder off and follow them.

They’re already in the shower by the time you arrive, and when you slide the door open they’re waiting for you—steam rushes out to wreathe your body only a moment before their warm wet arms do, and you let them pull you in without resisting.

You yelp a little at the hot water, and yelp again when Frisk leans you back against the still-cold tile of the wall, but they nudge their knee in between yours and you grip the door and the shower bar in either hand, resting your body back—your knees will hate you for trying to do this with all your weight on your feet.

Frisk leans in and catches your mouth with theirs again, warm breasts pressed up against yours, nipples stiff and puckered and ticklish against your sensitive skin. Their right hand skims up the inside of your thigh and you whine and close your eyes, afterimages of their face dancing behind your eyelids.

Shivering, stomach already swooping with nerves, you spread your legs for them. They palm you, careful, and you jump a little at the sensation, breath going uneven as they stroke your folds.

They break the kiss, and you crack one eye open. Your vision’s blurry and swaying and you can barely focus on them even though they’re two inches away from you.

“Is this okay?” they ask, so soft you can hardly hear them over the insistent drumming of the shower spray on their back.

You try to tell them _yes_ but it just comes out as a whine, so you nod instead. They duck back in to march kisses up the cords of your throat, and slide their middle and ring fingers inside you—warm, gentle, stroking the inner walls of you so that the breath is forced out of your lungs.

“So wet,” Frisk informs your shoulder, and heat rushes to your ears.

“Shut _up,”_ you moan, rocking your hips to press your clit more firmly against their palm. They giggle and move with you, the slide of their fingers tender and unbearable, their kisses light on your shoulder and clavicle.

They curl their fingers in you as soon as your breath starts to hitch, and you whine their name up to the ceiling as you come.

Frisk holds you up while your vision dances with sparks, thrusting shallowly into their hand until the shockwaves of pleasure ebb. It’s hard to breathe—you feel as though you’re pulling in as much steam as you are air—and they straighten up slowly, ready to catch you if you start to slide.

They pull their fingers out so torturously slowly that you whimper, and you make a choked noise when they raise their hand to their mouth to lick your come off.

“Can,” you croak, trying to shift upright, “can I…?”

Frisk raises their eyebrows for a moment, and then they smile and brace themself on the wall so that you can fold your own hand between their legs. They hum appreciatively when you rub your palm over their swollen clit, and they roll their hips up eagerly to meet your strokes. They close their eyes in seeming bliss and let their lips part for a satisfied sigh as they climax, trembling all over, thrusts gone jerky as they soak your fingertips.

When they relax, you take your hand back and wipe your fingers on your thigh. You’re nowhere near the tease they are, after all. (You’re not bold enough.)

But they’re smiling, and so are you.

“We could—keep going,” you suggest, but Frisk smiles helplessly and shrugs and says “Asriel’s waiting,” which is true. You don’t want to leave him out for too long.

You take your time in the shower, though—they let you lather their hair, and they go over your whole back with soap and a loofah until you’re pink and shivering from how nice it feels. The water’s gone lukewarm by the time you’re both done, and you’d be disappointed that it’s time to turn it off if Frisk weren’t there with fluffy towels for you both.

(They kiss the nape of your neck when you’re digging up fresh pajamas, and you yelp and giggle.)

 

 

Asriel is lounging on the couch when the two of you head back downstairs, changed into khakis and one of the sweaters you made him, and his whole expression softens to see you.

 _I’ll work on dinner,_ Frisk signs, grinning. _Spaghetti sound okay?_

“Fine with me,” you tell them; Asriel nods. Frisk pats your shoulder and gives you both a thumbs up, and pads off in the direction of the kitchen.

Asriel holds his arms out. You fly across the room and sail into them, curling up on his lap. You both sigh in unison.

“God, I missed you,” he says, resting his chin atop your head. You wind your fingers into his sweater and wish you could purr. “Sure, Frisk and I were together for most of the trip, but… it’s just not the same without you there. It’s so good to be back.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be with you two there,” you say into his front.

“It’s okay,” Asriel tells you. “You’d hate it. _I_ hate it half the time. All the arguing, all the not being able to say what you really want to, all the having to pick your words super carefully… It’s awful. You’re safer and happier here, and that’s what’s important.”

“Mm.” You bury your face in his chest.

“We should be able to have a nice long break to spend with you this time,” he says, big fingers running over your shoulder. “I missed you so much. I love you.”

You lift your head from his chest, and he leans down and kisses you.

He’s warm. You reach up and frame his face with both hands, stroking his cheeks and his ears as he parts your lips with his tongue, moaning soft and low into your mouth.

You become aware of the warm bulge under your folded legs.

So does Asriel, apparently, because he breaks the kiss and turns away shyly. “Uh—sorry, I just—it’s been a while since we were together, so…”

You kiss his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve—” You smile and play with his shirt. “I’ve missed being with you too.”

And you consider your options. Sex with Frisk in the shower was _good,_ you needed it, but you’re not satisfied yet. It’s both of them you want, not just one. You can’t make yourself settle for anything less.

So you get up on your knees, wince a little, and swing your leg around Asriel’s waist so that you’re straddling his lap instead, leaned back against his thighs, the tent in his pants pressed right up between your legs.

When you look back up at Asriel, he’s staring down at you wide-eyed. You smirk at him, but you still can’t help but blush when you rock your hips against his. “Is this—uncomfortable at all?”

He moans, and it sends pleasurable chills all through your body. His breathing rough, he gazes down at you bashfully.

“Just a little,” he says. “I know we’d have to warm up a little more if we wanted to… y’know… so if you’re okay with doing it without actually… putting it in…”

“That’s fine,” you tell him, and lean up to kiss his nose. “It’s just been so long. I’m impatient; can you really blame me?”

“Gosh, of course not,” he says, chuckling a little. “I’m impatient too.”

You ease back, wedged up between his thighs, as he undoes the front of his pants and pulls his boxers down to let his penis stand free. You pull your pajama pants and boyshorts halfway down your own thighs, and rest your hands and most of your weight on Asriel’s shoulders so that he can get them the rest of the way off. You allow him to guide you the rest of the way down, so that your folds settle over the length of his shaft.

Both of you gasp: You’d forgotten just how hot his skin is here when he’s hard, and it makes you ache to be filled _right now._ But where you’re left halfway panting, every nerve alight with lust, Asriel trails off into needy whimpering.

“What is it?” you ask him.

“You’re so _wet,”_ he whines. “Oh, Chara.”

You slap his chest, just a little, and bury your face in it. Your ears are burning. _“Shut it,”_ you groan. “I already had to deal with this from Frisk, not you too.”

“No, I’m—I’m not making fun, I’m happy,” he says, and kisses the top of your head.

“What do you mean,” you say, voice muffled in the front of his sweater.

His big hands run down your back, and you shiver. “Because it means you want me,” he says, tender, sincere. “Because it means you’re feeling good.”

“You know what would make me feel better,” you tell him.

“What is it?” he asks.

“If you’d move your hips some,” you say, pointed.

“Oh,” he says, giggling breathlessly. “Right.”

And he does.

It’s slow and gentle, because Asriel knows that that’s what you prefer and he’s a gentle person anyway, but you whine into his front because the heat he strokes all through you is almost more than you can stand. You rock your own hips against his, trusting his hands and arms to keep you supported, and you blush when his cock sliding against your vulva makes embarrassing wet sticky noises.

It feels good. It’s more than just him touching you where you’re sensitive, too—it’s that he’s big and warm and solid and surrounds you with comforting scents and textures and whispers your name over and over into your hair, his chest fluttering underneath your cheek, his racing pulse matching yours.

You bite your lip and put more force into the movements of your waist, your panting getting shallower and shallower. The small of your back arches and heat flashes through you in waves, leaving you shaking; beneath you, Asriel yelps once, and he twitches between your legs. There’s the pattering sound of fluid hitting the table behind you, and you can feel a few stray droplets on your ass and the inside of your thighs as he goes flaccid.

The two of you lie there together, arms around one another, panting, for a few minutes longer. You get up on your knees when he starts to shift beneath you, giving him room to ease his penis back into its sheath and fix his pants. You run a hand over the small of your back down to the base of your thigh experimentally, and make a face as you wipe away flecks of come.

“I’ll clean up the table in a second,” Asriel says, that same creeping didn’t-think-this-through embarrassment in his voice. “Sorry.”

You shake your head and swing your leg back over his lap so that you can sit back down without jamming your softening clit straight into his fly. “It’s okay,” you tell him, resting your head over his heart. He strokes your back with an idle hand, and you smile. “It was nice, after all this time.”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding a little proud.

 

 

(In the end, Frisk has to tell him to hurry and get the table wiped up and ask you to put the rest of your clothes back on so that you can eat, and the both of you do in a great rush as they return to the kitchen to finish cooking. You mouth _Worth it!_ over your shoulder at Asriel, and he hides his face in both hands and laughs.)

 

 

(Dinner, of course, is delicious—and beyond that, it’s _comforting,_ all three of you seated around the same table where you belong, smiling.)

 

 

When all three of you are on it together, the bed feels just the right size.

It’s like an open wound when you’re the only one here, and it’s uncomfortably big with just two of you, even if the one at home with you is Asriel. But with all three of you—

There’s room to stretch out. You’re not all crammed together uncomfortably; Asriel doesn’t have to kneel on the floor if he wants to use his tongue on one of you while the other is up on the bed too, and there’s plenty of room for every position Frisk has come running to suggest to you, bursting with curiosity.

And while of course you sleep snuggled up together when it’s cold, there’s also plenty of room to spread out in summer. A bed this size is absolutely essential for your and your partners’ life together.

You haven’t been so relaxed in this room—you haven’t been so relaxed at all—since Asriel and Frisk left a month ago. But now that they’re back at your side—there’s nowhere else you’d rather be in the entire world.

Asriel reaches out to hold your hand in both of his, lifting it to his mouth to kiss your knuckles, while Frisk plays with the ends of your hair. “Is there anything else you want to do tonight?” he asks. “Frisk and I would be fine with going to sleep if you’re tired, but if you want to do more…”

You shift a little on the sheets and look at your partners in the low light: Asriel, soft and huge and magnificent; Frisk, gentle and smiling.

“I do want to… to keep going,” you admit, looking down at the sheets and picking at them with your free hand. “But if _you_ two are tired…”

Asriel makes a dismissive noise. “I’m not really, uh, up for anything too intensive after earlier, but this isn’t _about_ me. Or about Frisk. If you want a little bit more TLC, it’d make me really happy to give that to you.”

Frisk pokes you in the side, and you turn to them. _Asriel is right,_ they sign. _We kept our gears pretty well oiled while we were away, but you had to get left out and that’s not fair. So for now we just want to spoil you a little bit. Does that make sense?_

“I guess,” you answer, not sure how to feel about your sudden appointment to the prestigious Center Of Attention position. “But we can… we can keep it short if you guys are ready to go to bed.”

“You’re too sweet for your own good,” Asriel tells you. (You scowl at him, because he is _entirely_ wrong.) “Is there anything you want, then?”

You consider that for a moment. What you really want is his cock inside you and Frisk touching you all over, but if Asriel isn’t—heh— _up_ for it, especially considering all the extra foreplay that would require, you’ll take the next best thing. “You might be out of commission below the waist,” you say brightly, knowing your red face and ears are going to betray you, “but the rest of you isn’t, is it? You could use that.”

“That sure is a proposition,” Asriel says, but he’s grinning, and Frisk is snickering too. “Okay.”

 _Would you be okay with me touching you here?_ Frisk asks, indicating their own chest rather than grabbing yours.

You think about it. Swallow just a little. “Yeah,” you say. “Just—just be gentle.”

They smile and nod and pet your hair, cupping your cheek to pull you in for a kiss while Asriel nuzzles your palm. You shiver in anticipation.

Frisk backs up about an inch. “Cold?” they ask, brow furrowed.

You shake your head. “Feels nice,” you croak.

Their face breaks out into a smile, and they reach out to hug you around the waist, reeling you in so that you’re sitting up against their chest. They plant a kiss at the nape of your neck, and trace their lips along the ridge of your shoulder until your breath is shaky and rough.

Asriel watches this with his gaze intense, and when he realizes that you’re looking at him, he gulps visibly. “Can I…?”

Your voice isn’t obeying you, so you let your knees fall splayed in response, staring beseechingly as you can. Asriel’s eyes travel down your front to between your open legs and doesn’t look away.

“Okay,” he says in a small voice, and then louder: “Okay.” He stretches out on his front on the mattress and nuzzles the inside of your thigh.

Frisk switches their attentions to your other shoulder, pulling the folds of your labia open for Asriel with one hand and sweeping the other up your stomach to find a firm hold on your breast. You jerk your hips into their touch and cry out, unable to contain yourself.

It’s overwhelming, here between them. It always is. They’re both gentle, but that’s the problem—both of them know just exactly how to touch you to make you feel good, and between Frisk’s kisses and nibbles and their hands kneading your sensitive breasts softly, you don’t have the fortitude left to bear Asriel’s soft mouth and tongue creeping up the inside of your thigh and his warm breath rolling up your lower belly. Even if you could squirm away from them you wouldn’t want to and Frisk has you held fast, so all there is left to do is arch up into your partners’ touch and beg breathily for more of it.

Asriel’s tongue first traces your vulva at the _exact_ moment Frisk starts to play with your nipples, and you grab the sheets with both hands and _yowl_ because it’s simultaneously too much and exactly enough: His mouth and their fingers and two warm bodies up against yours, shutting out everything else in the world, cutting your consciousness down to _here_ and _now_ and how good it feels to be pressed up against Frisk’s soft belly, how nice the texture of Asriel’s pads is on the vulnerable insides of your thighs as he keeps them spread. He licks up into you and you keen, and Frisk kisses the base of your jaw and traces the edges of your areolae with light fingertips, and there are fireworks going off behind your eyes.

“I love you,” you realize you’ve been saying for the past while. “I love you, I love you, Ree, Frisk, oh _god,_ there, there—”

You come with Frisk squeezing your breasts and Asriel tongue-deep in you, his breath hot and shallow on your oversensitive clit. You twist and shudder and cry out, words deserting you entirely; Asriel eases back slowly and Frisk strokes you all over, soothing instead of sensual, matching their breathing to yours as you relax.

Fumbling, you grasp Frisk’s hand in yours, and reach out for Asriel until he understands and winds his big fingers through your smaller ones. You still can’t drum up language, so you lean into Frisk and smile at Asriel, panting, messy, affectionate.

He reaches out and scoops you both up to his chest, and you close your eyes, shaky yet. There’s a pleasant buzz throughout your limbs, a tingle in your skin. Your partners are both holding you.

You’re safe.

 

 

(Hours later, you wake to Asriel’s heavy arm keeping you pinned on your side and Frisk’s elbow, which is pointier than any joint on somebody that chubby has any goddamn right to be, ground into the small of your back. You groan as unobtrusively as you can, shove the offending human arm away, and lift Asriel’s arm up off you so that you’re able to roll onto your back and scoot up closer to his chest so that his furry embrace won’t be so painful on your diaphragm.

You yank the covers back up to your shoulders the way that you and Frisk both like it, and close your eyes. Perfect.

You’re safe.

You’re happy.)

 

 

(Five minutes later, you’re asleep again.)


End file.
